The Instrument of Emanations

Nysa ran her fingers over the pitted silver of the locket around her neck. It had become a nervous habit. If she were playing a round of poker with the vandal kids in the mess hall it would be her tell. She’d kick herself after losing the few credits she had managed to hold on to and swear to never play another round with them again….but this wasn’t a poker game. She wasn’t in the mess hall, tucked safely away underground with the rest of the resistance and the stakes of this game were much higher.

Nysa sucked in a breath and slowly released it, banishing all thought of what once was, for it was no more. She was humanity’s last hope. The resistance was all but wiped out in the last attack. There was nowhere left to run or hide. She squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to erase the images of her friend’s broken bodies from her mind’s eye. She’d never forget the shade of red splashed across Mira’s throat. She’d never be rid of the slick gritty feel of her sister’s blood on her hands as she tried desperately to work the clasp of the locket at her neck, covered in rubble and dirt and praying she’d get out before they found she had survived. She had……got out that is; and now here she was, humanity’s last hope sitting cross legged in a tiny shelter she had scrapped together on the edge of what was left of the dying forest that used to sprawl across the land. That was the first thing they destroyed once they realized just what it meant to harness the powers of Azrael the Angel of death. They began their mad hunt for the Tree of Life as soon as they held one of it’s angels in sway. The end came fast. One day we were living our lives, awakening to the knowledge of the universe, and the next the Bureau was razing the land in search of the Tree and culling any souls they could get their hands on. The Bureau, an amalgamation of the old world bloodlines currently masquerading as Technocrats and Corporate Conglomerates that sought control over the reincarnation cycle in order to shackle humanity into cybernetic slavery, got their hands on Azrael and its been hell on earth ever since. As humanity started waking up they realized that they need not stay under the thumb of their oppressive corporate overlords. They began to step into their power and the parasitic plutocracy began falling apart. That’s when The Bureau was formed. The highest of the elite downloaded their consciousness into cybernetic bodies. They essentially became impervious to death. Azrael, the assistant to man’s creation and the architect of the human body, sought to amend this affront to the cycle. For it is Azrael that stands alone on the shores of mortality plucking the souls from the dead, like holy seeds from decaying fruit. But somehow they were able to conquer Azrael and found a way to harness his power. Now they could reap every soul and bind it to a cybernetic body but not in the same way they had for themselves. They built in firewalls to hold the consciousness in subjugation, using the spark of life to power the android but allowing no autonomy. They had ended the cycle of reincarnation and were imprisoning souls within the circuit boards of these drones, forcing them to labor and live as they wished. Every soul they reaped became a soilder in their army. They used these armies against humanity, and in turn harvested every soul lost in the attacks. They burned the forests of earth knowing that the Tree of Life, the well from which humanity pulls its collective power, must be destroyed if they were to be sure that no human could stand against them. This is where they made their mistake.

Nysa opened the tiny door of the heart shaped locket. It was unassuming enough. Just a simple silver locket, one of millions mass-produced in the old world. They were just jewelry then. Meant only for aesthetic purposes. Strange; how long had it been since Nysa had even looked in a mirror? In this hellscape, your appearance was the least of your concerns. Oh, to go back to a time when all she had to worry about was if this shade of lipstick complimented her skintone or what color tunic she’d wear to the Oratory for prayer. Inside the tiny locket was a small piece of wood. It would look, to the outside observer, to be but a splinter, as inconsequential as a fallen leaf or a grain of sand. But it is the tiny grain of sand that tips the scale. It is the smallest breath of wind that sends the leaf cascading along through the air to worlds unknown. This was no mere splinter. This was the thorn of Simikiel, the Angel of Vengence. She shuddered as the tiny object tumbled into the palm of her hand. This was the last hope for our world. Nysa knew what she had to do. The only way to restart the cycle was to wipe the slate clean. A chill ran through her body at the thought of what would become of her, what would become of this land. Simikiel would take vengeance on the Bureau, yes, but also on the world. Once unleashed, Simikiel could not be stopped. He would seek retribution for every wrong ever done, and it was Nysa’s job to preform the ritual that would unleash him. It was her body and mind which would be broken to become a channel through which the angel’s power may be utilized, just as a laser uses but simple light, concentrated through a tiny point, to burn through matter. They had all been taught the ritual. It was a worst case scenario kind of thing; like pushing the launch button on the nuclear weapons of old. It would accomplish their goal but at what cost? Nysa recalled the teaching they all had to commit to memory from the Oracle of Emanations:

“When the time comes, we all call it’s name. It is ever the instinct in our throat when we seek retribution. We choke on it even as we languish in every syllable. But those who call on Simikiel without cause will have harm fall back upon them threefold. It is the way of Simikiel’s sword, cutting in both directions. While we will gird our fragile hearts against being hurt, pain will make its attempts on us by any means necessary. It is in our soul to survive at all cost, even if it means violence. Try to resist the urges of your barbed heart. Simikiel knows not forgiveness.”

Was this really the only option? To call forth Simikiel and let his power raze this world of every living creature and begin the cycle anew? She pushed the thoughts from her mind. She must not think about what would become of her body, of her mind, of her soul. That was the price of calling on such power. She may be liberating every soul to the ether where Binah may gently lead them into their new karmic reincarnation, but her soul, her consciousness, would be obliterated by the Angel of Vengence. She would not be taken into the fold and be born anew. She would not see the lights of the Bardo Her spark would be extinguished. A light smothered by the darkness of destruction. It was a small price to pay for a new start, she knew. But it was all she had, all she was. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks as she pressed her fist against her chest feeling her heartbeat there, a living drumbeat, a tribute to all that she was, all she would ever be. She dug her toes into the loamy earth, tasted the salt as her tears mingled with the sweat on her lip, felt the pulse of life within her limbs. Strange how we become our most alive in the moments before our last.

Nysa opened her eyes, inhaling deeply the smell of the forest. Burnt and chared as it was, already life was beginning to rise from the ashes anew. She smiled at the thought of this world, green with new life, new creatures, new beings. She would not be here with them. She would not see that new world; but she would be the reason it came to be. She steeled herself against her mortal fear and carefully lifted the thorn to her finger tip. The ritual required her to pierce her skin with the thorn. It was simple enough. She wondered what that simple action would bequeath her. Would she feel pain? Would she feel her light go out? Would it hurt to be extinguished? Would she miss existence? No, she answered herself, huffing cynically at her own naivety; how could one miss something if one does not exist. The weight of oblivion settled over her body. Strangely enough, she found it much easier to bear the idea of her own obliteration rather than the oppressive immensity that was the eternal imprisonment of every soul. In that moment she understood all the teachings truly. In that moment she was every soul The Bureau had reaped. She was every creature that crawled across the surface of this dusty earth. She was everything, and everything was her. She was such a small piece of the puzzle and she languished in the bliss of marterydom. Slowly, savouring every sensation, she pierced her fingertip with the thorn. She stiffened at the sight of the crimson blood welling up around the thorn’s point, the same shade of crimson she’d seen far too many times before. She felt the sharp sting spread from that tiny point of red and travel up her arm. The sting became a sharp vibration, a wavering tone, as if something had struck the sweetest and also the harshest of chords. She felt her body contorting, the points in which she existed in space stretching as a golden light flooded her vision. She looked down to realize her entire body was made of light. Nothing else existed in this moment. It was just her, Nysa, the quintessence of her whole form, her whole world, every moment of every lifetime her light had spent on earth stretching and collapsing into a single point of light that was getting smaller and smaller and smaller. Until nothing was left of Nysa and Nysa was nothing. Then suddenly a beam of light shot out of the darkness, rushing forward at infinite speed and Nysa was the light and the light was Nysa. She was rushing along ahead of the light, but she also was the light and everything the light touched. A golden radiance flaring into existence and then, suddenly, simply just was. A new star, a new universe, a new life, a new world.